Chapter 3: A Television Drama Script
Murakami Iori had been on her feet all day and was utterly exhausted. All she wanted was to go home, sink into a warm bath, and rest. But despite her fatigue, her upbringing wouldn't allow her to be rude. When Chihara Rinto approached her, she simply gave him a curious glance and smiled politely. "Hello, may I ask who you are?"
"Nice to meet you," Rinto said with a formal bow, following Japanese customs to the letter. "I'm a freelance screenwriter named Chihara Rinto. Forgive me for stopping you so suddenly."
"A freelance screenwriter?" Murakami Iori echoed silently in her mind. Translation: an unemployed drifter trying to sound impressive. Still, she returned the courtesy, introduced herself, and asked, "What brings you to me, Chihara-san?"
"Sorry if I'm being too forward," Rinto replied, his tone polite but intense as he locked eyes with her. "I just wanted to ask—Murakami-san, are you planning to work your way up to becoming a producer?"
Murakami Iori raised an eyebrow. How did he know that? It wasn't exactly a secret, so she smiled and answered, "Yes, actually. Why do you ask? Is there something wrong with it?"
TEB was preparing to launch a satellite channel, which meant more programming slots and, consequently, a greater need for producers. This was a rare opportunity, and she wasn't about to let it slip through her fingers. Many others shared her ambition—it wasn't unusual.
Rinto had gleaned this information from casual chats with the security guards. Though unassuming, they were veritable treasure troves of gossip. He pressed further, his voice tinged with concern. "There's nothing wrong with aiming high, but isn't your experience still lacking? Do you feel confident about succeeding?"
Even in the 21st century, Japan's corporate culture remains steeped in seniority-based hierarchies, let alone in the 1990s. From what Rinto understood, Murakami Iori had only been interning and working at TEB for four or five years. To leapfrog into the role of a program's lead producer at her age—with her relatively short tenure—was ambitious, if not outright improbable.
And then there was the added hurdle of gender. In Japan's male-dominated workplaces of the 1990s, women faced even steeper odds when climbing the ladder.
Hearing his question, Murakami Iori's smile faltered briefly before returning, albeit more restrained. "You're right—I do need more experience, and my chances aren't great. But success depends on effort, doesn't it? I want to try my best… Anyway, why does Chihara-san seem so interested in my career plans?"
Her patience was wearing thin. Sensing this, Rinto took a deep breath and declared earnestly, "I can help you, Murakami-san."
The words hit her like a thunderclap. For a moment, her carefully maintained professional mask slipped entirely. Was this young man affiliated with one of TEB's factions? The son of some influential figure, perhaps? Had her abilities caught the eye of upper management, and were they offering her a chance to join their ranks?
Was he connected to the newspaper faction, the local faction, or maybe the banking faction? Rumor had it the newspaper faction desperately needed junior producers…
Instantly wary, Murakami Iori treaded cautiously. She came from humble origins and lacked backing from any powerful group—a significant disadvantage in navigating key decisions. With forced politeness, she probed, "Help me? Could you clarify what you mean by that?"
Rinto glanced around and noticed Kondo Airi lingering nearby, looking suspicious. Odd, considering how meek he'd always seemed in her presence back in the day. Turning back to Murakami Iori, he suggested, "This isn't the place for a detailed discussion. If you don't mind, may I treat you to coffee?"
They were standing outside TEB headquarters, where foot traffic made private conversations impossible. After a brief pause, Murakami Iori agreed. While Rinto was a stranger, the bustling streets of Tokyo offered safety in numbers. Listening to him couldn't hurt—and who knew? Maybe this encounter would lead to an unexpected opportunity.
To ensure extra security, she proposed a venue. "Let's go to COKC. It's quieter there."
Rinto subtly clenched his fist. He'd prepared multiple plans and rehearsed five different approaches to secure a lengthy conversation. Yet here Murakami Iori was, readily agreeing without much persuasion. Progress came easier than expected!
With a courteous gesture, he led her toward the café, leaving Kondo Airi behind to stew in confusion. Wasn't he here for me? Did that useless ex move on already?
Dismissing the thought with a flick of her wrist, Airi strode into the building. As long as Rinto didn't cause trouble, she no longer cared what he did. Still, something gnawed at her. How could someone change so drastically in just over two years?
---
COKC was a cozy café whose name derived from a string of French words. Known for its hand-ground coffee, it was a favorite haunt of Murakami Iori's. As they entered, the barista greeted her warmly.
Seated across from her under the café's warm lighting, Rinto studied Murakami Iori closely. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, standing about five-foot-three. Her delicate features and clear-eyed gaze exuded intelligence and refinement, betraying a solid education. Her hair bore gentle waves, and she wore a light silver-gray coat—but its design struck him as peculiar. The shoulders were exaggeratedly broad and padded, giving her an almost masculine silhouette. Combined with her petite frame and intellectual demeanor, the effect felt jarring.
Yet Rinto understood the reasoning behind it. Japan was in the midst of promoting gender equality, encouraging women to step out of traditional roles and into the workforce—a movement spurred by the Equal Employment Opportunity Law enacted in the mid-1980s (when Japan's booming electronics industry created a labor shortage). Despite these efforts, progress remained sluggish; over 80% of urban women still stayed home as housewives. Only in the 1990s did figures like Murakami Iori begin emerging as trailblazers in the professional sphere.
By adopting a strong, authoritative appearance, Murakami Iori likely hoped to convey her ability to shoulder responsibilities equal to those of men. However, centuries of tradition weren't easily overturned, especially in a society that had never undergone a revolution in women's liberation. For Murakami Iori to rise in a male-dominated field while refusing to settle for decorative or supportive roles required extraordinary resilience.
Yes, his intel was spot-on. She was precisely the person he needed.
After placing their orders, Murakami Iori finally asked, "Chihara-san mentioned helping me earlier. What did you have in mind?"
"This," Rinto replied, pulling a stack of papers from his briefcase and sliding them across the table toward her.
Murakami Iori glanced down, puzzled. "What is this?"
"A television drama script."
Her face fell immediately. Any fantasy of being taken under the wing of a powerful faction evaporated. She nearly stood up to leave but forced herself to stay seated, adhering to the decorum drilled into her since childhood. Women, after all, were expected to maintain composure even in uncomfortable situations.
She managed a strained smile. "Chihara-san might not realize this, but we rarely accept external scripts. Even adaptations of popular manga or novels are typically handled by our in-house writers… Perhaps you should try approaching a production company?"
Rinto nodded knowingly. Of course, he was aware of that. Why else would he go through the trouble of intercepting Murakami Iori?
"I'd rather avoid production companies," he said smoothly. "Since you're already here, Murakami-san, surely spending a little more time won't hurt, will it? Please, give it a glance."
Japanese television production differed significantly from other countries. Unlike systems where broadcasters purchased content from independent studios, Japanese networks produced everything themselves. Programs ranging from dramas to variety shows, documentaries, and educational content were crafted within specialized departments known as production bureaus. These bureaus often employed artists to create anime and other media.
While independent production companies existed, most operated as subsidiaries of major networks, producing limited content tailored to specific needs. Joining such a company held less appeal compared to entering a network directly. For Rinto, crafting TV dramas was merely a stepping stone—a way to break into the industry.
Rather than explain all this, Rinto gently nudged the script closer. After a moment of silence, Murakami Iori reluctantly picked it up.
This was the sunk cost principle at play. Had Rinto handed it to her on the street, she might have brushed him off and walked away. But now, seated comfortably with coffees ordered, leaving abruptly felt impolite.
Still, she skimmed the pages half-heartedly. People like Rinto weren't uncommon these days—not since the economic bubble burst in early 1992. Economic indices continued plummeting, and by late 1994 showed no signs of recovery. Companies lucky enough to avoid layoffs refrained from hiring, leading to dismal employment rates. Tokyo's sky-high living costs made survival without stable income nearly impossible.
Perhaps Chihara-san was another desperate soul chasing a job…
As she flipped through the script, ready to offer some polite advice—screenwriting wasn't easy; seasoned writers spent years honing their craft—something caught her attention.
The words drew her in.